


you're as lovely as the stars (and just as far)

by wrenstars



Series: a prince on lothal [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Luke and Leia Switched, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 13:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19870624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenstars/pseuds/wrenstars
Summary: being in love with someone is difficult; especially when there's an entire galaxy between you.or:the one where luke and ezra are smitten with each other, and their families have to deal with it.





	you're as lovely as the stars (and just as far)

The galaxy is full of stars and planets, of pinpricks of light that shine through the black backdrop of space, filtering through the glass window into Ezra’s eyes as he gazes out at it, taking everything in.

He’s able to see a vast amount of the galaxy from the Ghost, in a way, just by looking outside. In the light of the stars, the glowing planets, he sees every particle of life that exists in them, on them, from atom to plant to person. The life of the entire universe exists before his very eyes, and the Force allows him to reach out, to _feel_ the warmth of their existence.

And Luke is among that vastness, too.

In a way, through this window, he’s able to lay eyes on Luke, another spec of light in the galaxy.

Ezra groans and slumps further into his seat.

It’s been weeks since Luke Organa came to Lothal, and yet he still hasn’t been able to get the prince out of his head. Forget that they’d known each other for less than a day, that they’d only had hours in each other’s company―there’s _something_ about Alderaan’s prince that’s caused him to lodge himself in Ezra’s mind like a friend he can’t bring himself to tell to leave. Now he’s grown comfortable there, and may as well have moved in with him.

Luke’s likely on Alderaan now, and probably has been since their mission ended. Ezra wonders if he’s seated in a sunlit courtyard, wonders what Luke’s golden hair looks like in such warm, golden rays. He wonders what Luke looks like in royal clothes, which colour suits him best and if he prefers wearing them or the more comfortable, practical clothes he wears on missions. He wonders what Luke’s laughter sounds like in the safety of his home, what he does when he’s not focused on the Rebellion, and if there’s any room for Ezra to join him in that life at all or if he’d just bring the Rebellion constantly to Luke’s doorstep like an uninvited guest and would Luke ever want to see him again anyway―

“Hey, Ezra!”

A voice shouts behind him, accompanied by the thunk of something hard hitting the wall―it’s enough to jerk Ezra from his thoughts make him jump a mile in his seat. His heart hammers in his chest and he spins around.

Sabine leans against the doorframe, arms folded over her chest and her head slightly tilted. The light filtering through the window illuminates her tanned skin and makes her brown eyes glow. She’s effortlessly beautiful even when she isn’t trying ( _especially_ then), even when her hair is messy and beginning to lose its colour, showing some of the black locks that exist underneath.

There’s a compliment to be made here, a sugar-coated remark about how _nice_ she looks and that if she’s here then she must want to see _him_ , obviously―but the thought is not as enticing at it usually is, like he’s been eying a ripe meiloorun but just realised it’s slightly too old, bordering on going off.

Sabine’s eyebrows furrow as her gaze flicks between him and the rest of the empty room.

“What _are_ you doing?” she demands. “Hera called a meeting ten minutes ago, you know. Didn’t you hear her?”

Ezra freezes, then sinks a little into the chair so Sabine can no longer see him, burying his head in his hands.

Kriff it all―had he _really_ been that far gone?

Had his attention been as far away as Alderaan, and lost there, for so long?

(It’s funny; while he’s vied for Sabine’s attention in the past, he’s never thought of her longingly like this, like she’s the sun his world orbits around, the one thing his thoughts always circle back to in the end.)

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he mutters, turning his head as he leaps out of his seat. He doesn’t need Sabine seeing his red cheeks.

But still, he mustn’t be very good at hiding his feelings, because only a second after falling into step with her Sabine says, “You’re in a bad mood. Was I interrupting something?”

“ _No_!” Ezra protests. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About none of your business, that’s what!”

“ _Hmm_. Is that so?”

She studies him like he’s a someone she’s about to paint, considering all angles, all perspectives, all little nuances of his being so she’s able to capture his essence and make him vibrant on the page (or the wall, or wherever it is she decides to paint that day). Normally Ezra yearns for her attention like this, but now he folds his arms over his chest and hunches his shoulders, preventing her from studying him so closely, and glares at the floor.

They walk in silence for a few steps before Sabine gasps, a sound accompanied by the click of her fingers. She snickers to herself―the sound is enough to make Ezra’s stomach fall through the floor.

“Miss your prince already?” she hums.

Ezra chokes. Spluttering, he dissolves into a coughing fit, one so bad that he has to stop walking and lean against the wall. Sabine thumps him on the back, so hard that he staggers a few steps.

When he’s recovered, he looks up and glares daggers at Sabine through watering eyes.

“Luke is _not_ my prince!” he exclaims, though it sounds more like an outraged squawk―his voice is perhaps a little shriller than is strictly necessary.

His defensive words are far from water that douses Sabine’s interest; instead, his denial is fuel for her flames. She throws her head back and laughs, her chest shaking from the force of it.

“I _knew_ it!” she crows. Her eyes are positively sparkling, and there’s an aura of joy and triumph around her unlike that of a predator that knows its cornered its prey, and that the prey has nowhere left to run. Even if he managed to slip away, she’s run his defences down enough that she’d just be able to pounce on him later.

“Aw, _Ezra_ ,” she croons, reaching over and ruffling his hair like he’s nothing more than five years old. “First crushes are _adorable_ when they’re not focused on me. He’s a little out of your league, though.”

“Hey!” Ezra yells. He jumps out of her reach and scowls, flattening his hair back to the way it was. His face burns. “What in the _Force_ do you mean?”

Sabine laughs. Her eyes sparkle the way they always do when inspiration hits her: alive, like stars, stars that light up an otherwise blank backdrop and cover it in art.

He knows he’s going to be the inspiration behind her next masterpiece. Possibly Luke will be, too.

This is one piece of her artwork he is _not_ looking forward to seeing.

“Oh, nothing,” she sings. “Still, better him than me!”

Ezra responds by punching her on the shoulder―and wincing as his fist connects with her armour. He tries to hide it but, of course, she still notices and her grin becomes even more wicked.

He hates her, sometimes. Why did he _ever_ have a crush on her?

Fleeting appreciation is _so_ not worth this relentless, awful teasing.

He refuses to speak with her even as they enter the lounge. He’d hoped that Kanan and Hera would already be there so they could settle everything down―but his hopes are dashed when he looks up from the floor and realises that they’re not there, the low voices that filter into the room implying that they’d stepped out to discuss something privately while waiting for him. Only Zeb is there, and the grin he wears when he spots them makes Ezra want to turn around and walk straight out of the room. He’s almost certain an angry Hera would be easier to handle than these two.

“Finally, the kid comes out of hiding! Where was he skulking this time?”

“He wasn’t _skulking_ ,” Sabine says, laughing lightly. She perches herself on the edge of the table. “He was lost in his own head, _mooning_ over his prince.”

Zeb snickers. Ezra’s cheeks warm and he curses under his breath (Hera would be appalled), glaring at each of them in turn.

“I _right here_ , you know!” he protests, moaning pitifully like a whining child.

Their laughter only grows louder in response.

* * *

Luke squints, trying to better see the glowing words on his datapad. It shouldn’t be _that_ difficult―in the late (or should he say early?) hour, nothing exists but the absolute darkness of his room, and the only light is supplied by his datapad screen. Yet still the words blur together, and he adjusts the angle of the pad to see it clearer.

Perhaps his difficulty reading has something to do with his rapidly blinking, watering eyes. He shrugs his sheets further up his shoulders, hugging them closer to his body as his chin droops further. Sleep is the ocean his body is trying to drown him in, yet through sheer force alone (and perhaps something else, a feeling he doesn’t care to describe) he continues kicking for the surface, gasping for breath to hold on just that _little_ bit longer.

One more line, he tells himself, just one more, and another―it’s a pattern that continues until he finishes one report and manages to move onto another, sleep not yet drowning him.

For Luke, the black shadow of his room is the vast darkness of space, and the light flickering from his datapad is the stars. His entire universe is currently condensed into this small space, to the tiny thing he holds in his hands and the miniscule letters printed on it.

Really, he doesn’t _need_ to be reading these reports, much less stay up at this hour to do so. He’s not involved in these missions, nor does he have any sway over them and nor will they assist him as one of the Empire’s junior legislators. If he were to give them reports on Phoenix Squadron― _especially_ the Ghost crew―it would do nothing but raise suspicion within the political field about his, and perhaps Alderaan’s, loyalties. Unless he was using them as an example to propose measures against the growing activity of rebel cells, which he’d never do.

 _They’re currently worthless to you_ , his teachers would say while removing the datapad from his hands. _Focus on your lessons and don’t worry your royal head over them. There’ll be plenty of time for that later_.

Luke would disagree.

For there is one name, one name alone, that keeps Luke reading, even as the clock shifts and time transitions between the final hour of night and the first hour of the new day on Alderaan. Even when he _knows_ he needs to be awake in five more hours to prepare for his classes, even when he knows he risks facing the disappointed frown on his father’s face should he fall asleep during them (an expression that hurts Luke more than if he simply yelled).

But for that one name, he risks it.

For Ezra Bridger, he risks it.

He won’t be able to explain _how_ to anyone who asks, nor will he able to articulate _why_. All he knows is that, from the first time he’d read Ezra Bridger’s name, it had felt like he’d suddenly recalled a long-forgotten memory with perfect clarity.

Maybe it’s because Ezra is his age, and they’re both so young with so much responsibility resting on their shoulders.

Maybe it’s because he can’t help but admire Ezra, someone who’s come from circumstances that complete opposite to Luke’s own, and yet is still such an important figure within their growing rebellion.

Maybe it’s because of Ezra’s transmission, a single message embedded with so much hope and strength and will to _fight_ , one that has reached endless systems, one that has done more for opposing the Empire than Luke can lay claim to in his entire career. He still plays it on repeat sometimes, when he’s alone in his room and there’s nobody nearby, listening to Ezra’s passionate words that could’ve turned the tide of a vote in the Old Republic’s senate.

Yet, even as he comes up with these reasons, he’s always known somehow it was more than any of that.

And since his mission to Lothal, it’s been worse.

Ezra (and the Ghost crew in general) have now become constants in his mind. After meeting Ezra, Luke had felt his initial labelled _interest_ and _curiosity_ transform―he’d felt a connection, like a lost planet being drawn into a star’s orbit. It amplified whatever attraction he’d felt to Ezra from the start, but also added _more_ to it.

Nowadays, thoughts about Ezra’s bravery, his courage and determination even after his loss, his endearing clumsiness as he tried to impress Luke, were accompanied by red cheeks or a skipped heartbeat.

He used to scrounge up information about Phoenix Squadron from his father―but lately, _especially_ after their last meeting about the matter, that has changed.

_“What reports are those?” he’d asked, peering over his father’s shoulder._

_Bail shrugged. “Just information and updates on cell activity. And before you ask, yes, Phoenix squadron is doing well.” He settled the datapad on his desk and turned to Luke, grinning broadly at his son. “They’re managing fine after their escape from Garel_ _―and the Ghost crew is still operating as well as ever. They’ve had a pretty good run with their missions lately, actually.”_

_Luke blinked. “I never said_ _―”_

_“You’re not being very subtle about it; I could read your true intentions from lightyears away_ _.” Bail ruffled Luke’s hair with a fond smile. “That’s something you’re going to have to work on if one day you want to take my place in the Senate.”_

_Luke’s cheeks turned bright red and he hastily smoothed his hair. He looked down, unable to meet his father in the eyes. “I’ll do my best, Father.”_

_“Pay more attention in your classes and there shouldn’t be a problem. Ever since your mission to Lothal, you’ve been more distracted than ever.”_

_“It’s nothing. I’ll get over it.”_

_“Hmm.” Bail’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll see about that.”_

There’d been something about that glimmer in Bail’s eyes that Luke _definitely_ hadn’t liked.

So now he takes the reports after dinner and reads them by starlight, when there’s no one to look at him and fix him with that knowing, teasing gaze, the one that makes Luke feel like all his secrets have been exposed.

And he’s found that he likes it better this way. Ezra has become something… personal. Their connection is something that’s theirs and theirs alone, and letting anyone else even catch a hint of that is like letting them read his journal. 

Luke yawns, a sound that lasts for several seconds, and rubs his eyes. He comes to the end of his final report, one about the abandonment of one of the Mining Guild’s operations after the combined attack of the Ghost and several purrgil. He reads the final paragraphs hungrily, devouring every word despite his tiredness, for he’ll forever be starving for more news about Ezra’s movements and status, never truly satisfied. He reads about how Ezra’s connection to the purrgil enabled the Ghost to steal a fuel shipment and defeat the guards, a feat that would’ve been impossible if not for Ezra’s Jedi abilities.

It’s crazy, unconventional, and just a little unbelievable―just like Ezra himself. Luke smiles, a little wistfully. He wishes he could’ve been there to see it with his own eyes, instead of trying to fit together the clues that reports leave behind.

 _One day, I hope I can fight with him again_ , Luke thinks, with the type of longing usually only reserved for his father’s long political journeys. _Beside him. Instead of operating in separate spheres, I hope we can work together, just like on Lothal_.

He stares at the report for a little longer before he shuts it off, his need to sleep finally overpowering his need to read more about Ezra. He rolls onto his back and nestles his head on the pillow, staring blankly at the ceiling. In the darkness he can only make out the sky outside, and the faint glow of the millions of stars.

 _Ezra’s among those stars, somewhere. I wonder where he is right now_.

Too far away for Luke’s liking, at least.

He indulges himself in a few minutes of blissful daydreams―images of Ezra by his side, of Ezra’s wide grin and witty retorts as he deflects blaster fire with a burning blue lightsaber, before darkness encompasses him and he’s dragged into sleep.

* * *

“And have you _heard_ him speak? Everyone thinks he’s a loyal Imperial, but if you listen closely enough you can _tell_ he’s on our side, supporting the people the Empire is hurting―he’s so smart, hiding it in plain sight like that…”

Ezra trails off. Sabine nods distantly and adds a few extra lines to her painting. “Uh-huh.”

“He speaks like the fights, don’t you think? I mean, granted, he didn’t have the opportunity to fight much on Lothal, but did you know he took a blaster I dropped? He took out like three Stormtroopers and saved my neck. Gritty, determined and powerful―in the Senate and on the battlefield, it’s a double threat.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We didn’t even have that much time together but… He was a reassuring presence, wasn’t he? Reassuring, but electrifying at the same time. Did you feel that? I don’t know what it was about him, but…” Ezra picks at a loose thread on his clothes. “I wouldn’t mind fighting with him again. If he thinks I was good enough. Do you think I’m a good enough fighter to be worth remembering to him, Sabine?”

“You dropped _blasters_ in front of him, kid. Real smooth.”

Ezra collapses back on his seat and groans, covering his head with his hands.

He can’t see Sabine, but he can still hear the soft spray of her paint as she continually adds details and colour to whatever it is she’s working on. He hadn’t been able to tell what it was from the alcove beneath Sabine’s bunk anyway, even with open eyes, but he doesn’t mind. He’d rather picture Luke’s face.

Once upon a time, he’d continually begged Sabine to allow him to watch her paint―and she’d always declined with a sharp no. In hindsight, it _might_ have been because he’d always insisted that she should create something inspired by him―something grand and impressive, and not like the silly cartoon she’d painted of himself and Zeb in their cabin.

That now feels like ancient history, even if it’s been only a few months since he last asked that of her.

Stopping his requests has come with a few benefits. Now that he no longer _pesters_ her or _demands dictation of her creative inspiration_ , Sabine doesn’t mind if he drops in and watches her paint. Though he barely even watches, anyway―more often than not, he’s rambling to her about Luke Organa. He rambles, she focuses on painting and responds only with the bare minimum (and the occasional witty comment), which is all he asks for: it’s an arrangement that works for both of them.

(The only downside is that when Sabine isn’t painting, she teases him mercilessly―but in the long run, that doesn’t matter. Talking allows him to get his feelings off his chest to someone, and not let them build against his chest until the pressure to much and he all but explodes. The teasing is better than getting laughed at by Zeb and Chopper, getting a raised eyebrow from Kanan, or talking about his feelings with Hera.

He just wants to talk. Sabine lets him do just that.)

Ezra cups his cheeks and sighs, no longer speaking but allowing his thoughts to stray away from the Ghost and Phoenix Squadron and toward Luke Organa, like the prince is his guiding star―

“ _Ezra_!”

The voice is a clap of thunder, thundering through the Ghost’s halls and making Ezra jump a mile out of both his chair and his thoughts. It’s loud, enough to make the walls look like they’re shaking, enough to make the very air tremble.

Ezra pales.

He knows that voice, and he knows why it’s so angry.

Sabine must pick up on it, too, because she dissolves into laughter.

“Oh no,” Ezra moans, like the end of the universe is on the horizon. He sinks further down his chair. “I forgot training.”

Sabine grins. “Kanan’s about to _murder_ you.”

Ezra doesn’t doubt that for a second. Not when he’s already forgotten about five sessions. And no, of course they’re not on separate occasions―of course he has to forget about five, now _six_ , in a row.

Why is he so incapable of learning his lesson?

Ezra leaps to his feet and runs to Sabine, crouching behind her. “Hide me, Sabine!”

“No! I don’t want to get murdered with you!” She pushes Ezra away and raises her voice. “He’s with me, Kanan!”

Ezra’s mouth falls open. “ _Traitor_!”

Sabine shrugs. Ezra glares at her for the slightest of seconds before he sprints to the door―but before he can leave, his only exit is blocked by the very tall, _very_ angry figure of his mentor.

Kanan’s arms are folded over his chest and he’s stands at his full height, glowering down at Ezra. Ezra smiles weakly, a pale chuckle passing his lips and he raises his hand―and action that instantly transitions into rubbing the back of his head when Kanan doesn’t greet him in return.

“Hey, Kanan!” he stammers. “Ah, yeah, training―you see, there’s a good explanation! I…” He scuffs the ground with his foot, slumping forward. “I forgot…”

Kanan snorts, unimpressed. “ _That_ much is obvious.”

“He was too busy rambling to me about his prince,” Sabine interjects. If not for the situation at hand, Ezra would snap at her for her sing-song-like tone. “His head’s in the stars, Kanan. Or Alderaan, more specifically. Don’t be too hard on him.”

Great. Kanan’s about to kill him, and now he’s also about to die from humiliation.

He just wants the day to be over already.

Ezra hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Kanan. I won’t forget next time.”

“That would be easier to believe if this wasn’t the sixth time in a row.” Kanan sighs heavily, the way Ezra vaguely remembers his father doing when he was being particularly stubborn, and shakes his head. “You and the prince may as well be start dating, he’s all you think about.”

Ezra chokes. “I _don’t_ ―”

“You _do_.” A hint of a teasing grin appears on Kanan’s lips. “You’re not focused in training anymore―I think instead of letting the Force guide your movements, I think you’d rather it gave you visions of you kissing Organa’s lips.”

“Kanan!” Ezra groans. He can hear Sabine laughing in the background and closes his eyes, wishing nothing more than for the floor to swallow him whole. “Stop! Not you, too.”

“That’s pretty harsh, Kanan,” Sabine says lightly with a sly smirk. “ _Especially_ considering how you and Hera look at each other.”

Whatever light was in Kanan’s eyes fades, until they look like nothing more than hard, cold stone. Ezra throws Sabine a glare over his shoulder―an unimpressed Kanan is _never_ an easy Kanan to deal with. Sabine doesn’t even flinch, sticking her tongue out instead.

“That’s enough from you,” Kanan says stiffly. “ _Both_ of you.” He places a hand on Ezra’s shoulder; it feels like a vice-like clamp. “Come on, Ezra. If you want me to start believing you are _not_ completely smitten with that prince, you need to start proving you’re _equally_ as dedicated to your training. Let’s go.”

“Wait!”

Sabine adds two quick, final sprays to her artwork and turns around, beaming. Ezra’s stomach falls; there’s something about that smile that makes his stomach squirm, that warns him he should run into the _Phantom_ and jump other side of the galaxy. “I just finished my piece, and I want Ezra to be the first to see it.”

Kanan frowns. “What is it?”

Sabine grins and steps aside, with a flourish of her arms that’s only supposed to belong in theatrical productions. “Ta-da!”

Ezra blinks, staring uncomprehending at the wall for several long, drawn-out seconds.

His stomach falls into space.

“ _Sabine_!” he screeches, and she doubles over in laughter. Even Kanan chuckles―and that just makes everything so much _worse_.

It’s him and Luke.

She painted a picture of his and Luke’s faces.

 _And they’re both encompassed by the same kriffing vibrant, pink heart_.

Ezra’s entire face turns red. If his entire body could blush, he knows he’d be looking _very_ sunburnt right now. He’s never wanted to die more. If an Inquisitor showed up on the Ghost right now, he wouldn’t even try to fight―he’d just let them get it over with. _That_ would be mercy. Maybe he should just comm them right now and tell them his location.

He turns to Kanan, forgetting that he’s very much in his mentor’s bad books, and points at the picture like it’s incriminating evidence.

“Kanan! She can’t picture the ghost with that!” he moans beseechingly. “Hera won’t like it―tell her to take it down! _Please_!”

Kanan shrugs. The humorous light has returned to his eyes. Ezra has never wished for that light to leave his gaze until today.

“It’s her room, so she can do whatever she wants,” he says, matter-of-fact. “And I think Hera will like it. She thinks your crush on Luke is adorable.”

“ _I don’t have a crush on Luke Organa_!”

Ezra’s outraged protest only makes them laugh harder.

“Keeping telling yourself that, Ezra,” Sabine chokes out. With a roll of her eyes, pushes him out of the door to Kanan’s unforgiving instruction.

* * *

Lothal, Luke knows, is a planet that consists only of grasslands.

It’s the same for miles on end, no matter where you look: every inch of Lothal is covered in the same long grass, and the only way to tell how much time is passing is when it slowly dries out in the summer, and revives in the cooler months. There are no trees, just outcroppings of rock and the occasional city that has sprouted up, each one as isolated from the other as the other, so much that they may as well be their own separate planets. It was quiet before the Empire, and still relatively so: there are no major uprisings there like on Ryloth, no heavy military presence, no crime syndicate or gang activities.

Well, not yet, at least. It’s only a matter of time―when it comes to the Empire, it’s never so much a question of _if_ as it is _when_. And who knows what will happen when the Empire begins to clench its iron fist and squeeze the life out of the planet?

It’ll be a shame when it does happen. Luke thinks of Lothal as beautiful, peaceful―it’s not Alderaan’s snow-covered mountains, sapphire lakes and emerald fields, but there’s something delicate about Lothal. It doesn’t scream beauty, but simply _is_. Its understatement is its true masterpiece.

But as much as Luke thinks it’s beautiful, it also means there is so much that Ezra hasn’t grown up seeing.

It means there is _so much_ that Luke is able to show him.

Yes, it’s a fantasy, one that can only exist in his most indulgent of daydreams. Ezra is a known rebel, and it’s impossible for him to come to Alderaan in the current political climate: to do so would be far too dangerous, for both himself and Alderaan, like walking into a trap that has warning and neon lights announcing its presence.

But the Empire doesn’t exist in his mind. It’s a small space, a space that Stormtroopers and TIE fighters could have easily conquered on planets, and yet they still lay no claim to it.

And, in this one space Luke can truly assert as his own, when he has time between lessons and drafting out speeches, Luke’s mind occasionally slips away―and he _dreams_.

He dreams of a universe where Ezra is able to come to Alderaan, on his own ship, under his own name, and without hiding his face. He dreams of greeting Ezra himself, clothed in full Alderaanian regalia instead of the cloaks he wears on reconnaissance, and being able to treat Ezra like the friend he is instead of a stranger he barely knows. He dreams of Ezra’s face alit in wonder, of Ezra being able to pause in the middle of the port and let the beauty of Luke’s homeplanet soak in as honey soaks into cake, instead of being shunted along before either of them elicits suspicion.

(It’s likely that Ezra been to more worlds that Luke by now on his numerous missions for Phoenix Squadron, that the wonder _won’t_ be so evident on his face―but it’s always a marvel, setting foot on an entirely new planet, one whose culture is so fundamentally different to your own. Luke’s breath still becomes caught when he catches his first glimpse of new worlds.)

And then, after their greetings and warm embraces, Luke would take Ezra’s hand and drag him to all the places he’s already marked as _things Ezra Bridger will probably like to see_.

First, Alderaan’s archives―Luke would take him there, to the vast expanse of knowledge the royal family has accumulated over centuries. He can hear Ezra groan, protesting that he’s been taken somewhere so _boring_. That is, until Luke reveals the secret room behind it, where his family have managed to hide texts about the Jedi Order and the Old Republic. He’d point Ezra to the texts about the Jedi of old, give him the opportunity to pour over images of the Jedi Temple, and allow him to connect to this part of his heritage he’s forever been barred from seeing. They could sit there for hours on end; Ezra would probably be enthralled by the Jedi, and Luke would keep himself comfortable reading about Senators of old for inspiration (he’s always reading up as much as he can about Senator Padme Amidala―her strength and determination in politics is something he greatly admires and aspires to achieve himself).

Then the palace’s courtyard, as simple and typical as that is―but it’s still something that cannot be passed up. So many of Alderaan’s native trees and flowers grow here, plants that are virtually non-existent on Lothal, and their architecture blends in with the nature surrounding it. They’d pick dandelions and blow their seeds to the wind, and Luke would tell Ezra all about Alderaan architecture and culture―if Ezra didn’t get bored, that was, in which case they’d climb one of the numerous fruit trees and nestle in its branches, eating ripe fruit from the tree and laugh as their fingers became sticky with its juices. They could hide in that tree as birds did, and like nosy birds Luke could offer Ezra a running commentary on every official and noble that walked past them, and they could chuckle over the silly and embarrassing stories Luke knows about several of them.

And then, the mountains. There are hardly any mountains on Lothal, hardly any place where you can stand at the tallest point of the world and see it all spread out from underneath you. They’d make a day of it, Luke decided. He’d take Ezra up the tallest one, using one of the speeders that Luke had fixed and maintained himself, taking nothing but food with them―an array of food that was equal mix of Alderaan and Lothal’s cuisine. They’d arrive at the top, Luke would gesture to the view and they’d stare on the edge, marvelling at the beauty of it. They’d spend the day in the sun and forget about the Empire and the growing rebellion, that Luke was a prince and Ezra was a Jedi and that they both had responsibilities on their shoulders and just… exist.

They’d just be Luke and Ezra.

And that’s how Luke knows this is to remain to daydream―while the Empire reigns and they fight back at it, they cannot only be Luke Organa and Ezra Bridger. They’re always going to have to be _more_.

“Luke! Luke, where are you?”

The shout jerks Luke from his thoughts and he sits up, wiping his forehead to rid his sweaty hair him his eyes, surely smearing it with engine grease. He leans back from his work repairing the engine of an old speeder―it’s so easy to let his thoughts drift when he’s cleaning and getting his hands dirty―and his back cracks. He winces. He must’ve been working here longer than he’d thought.

He gazes outside and, feeling his stomach falling through the floor, realises why people are shouting for him.

“Oh kriff,” he whispers under his breath.

Dinner’s going to be ready in a matter of _minutes_ , and he looks like he’s taken a bath in oil and grease.

His parents are going to be _thrilled_.

* * *

“ _Meanwhile, earlier today, junior legislator Luke Organa spoke out about the danger the growing conflict_ ―”

Ezra had been resting on the table in the common area, his head in his arms and his eyes threatening to close as he listened to the monotonous drawl of the holonet. But, as soon as Luke’s name was mentioned, new life shot through his body and he shot up, wide-eyed and alert.

There is no magic to Luke’s words, yet to Ezra they’re like the call of sirens in the sea―he cannot for the life of him look away, or allow his attention to wander. Every particle of his being rotates around Luke, his sun, drinking him in.

Luke’s clothed in white, a simple silver circlet in his sun-spun hair. His back is tall and his chin lifted as he addresses the crowd. He isn’t speaking loudly, but the absence of yelling only makes the audience lean in and listen closer. He commands so much power and attention, almost without realising it―his charisma leaks out like rays of the sun, effortless and beautiful and touching everyone to listens.

 _He’s beautiful_ , Ezra thinks. His mouth falls agape.

He could listen to Luke for the rest of his life.

Someone coughs behind him. “Ezra.”

Ezra freezes, a chill passing down his spine. He turns, slowly, a guilty smile on his face.

“Hey, Hera,” he mumbles.

Hera emerges from the shadows of the corridor, walking until she’s beside him. She stretches over and shuts the holonet off, the blue hologram―a reporter now, Luke’s having been replaced―flickering out of existence and the reporter being cut off mid-word. Ezra splutters, about to protest, but the hand she rests on his shoulders stifles his voice.

“It’s late.” She settles him with a pointed look. “You should be asleep.”

Ezra bites his lip and looks away, rubbing his neck. He’s been telling himself the same thing for hours, but couldn’t tear himself away from the stupid holonet despite its kriffing propaganda, hanging out for even the slightest bit of news about Luke.

“I know, Hera, I know, I _was_ getting there―”

“―After you finishing scouring the Holonet for every last bit of information about Luke Organa,” she finishes. She chuckles at Ezra’s wide eyes. “Subtly has never been your speciality, Ezra.”

Ezra rolls his eyes. She’s always been able to read him like the clearest, most obvious Force vision.

He turns back to where the image of Luke once was and sighs. Luke hadn’t even been in the Ghost in person, and it’s full of his family, yet his absence makes the ship feel so much emptier. He’d been a holoimage, but Ezra had felt Luke’s presence beside him like he was there in the flesh.

“Do you think I’ll ever get to see him again, Hera?” he asks.

He winces at the longing that’s evident to his _own_ ears.

Hera purses her lips together, frowning. She stares out at the stars, the far-off look to her face not unlike the expression she wears when she’s flying.

“I think the future is uncertain, and there’s no way to tell anything for sure,” she says, slowly, like she’s running every word through a processor to make sure they’re the right ones to say. “But I do think you two are connected somehow. Kanan spoke about the Force, but I don’t think it’s as complicated as that. I saw something in your eyes when you looked in each other.” She smiles. “I think it’s very likely that you’ll cross paths again one day.”

Ezra had sat continually straighter the more Hera spoke, and now his spine is reaching for the stars. He shuffles onto the edge of the seat, hanging on her every word. “You think so?”

“I do. But, saying _that_ ―” her lips twitch wryly and she places her hands on her hips “―You can’t let your future dreams run away from you to the point that you forget yourself and _this moment_. The bags under your eyes are growing more pronounced by the day. You’re going to fall asleep in the middle of a battle at this rate, and that will cause more problems for the rest of us.”

Ezra looks down, swallowing, guilt coursing through his body like a poison he knows he’s swallowed.

“I’m sorry, Hera―”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t be. It’s good to have dreams, Ezra, for they give us the motivation to keep fighting. But don’t let your dreams run away with you, or they’ll only remain dreams.”

Ezra tilts his head to the side.“I think I get what you mean,” he says, nodding.

Hera squeezes his shoulder. “Good man. Now how about we make sure you get some decent sleep? Perhaps then you can dream about your prince.”

Ezra’s cheeks burn. He’s never been more grateful for darkness.

“ _Hera_ ,” he moans.

Hera laughs and steps away, beckoning for Ezra to follow her. Ezra rolls his eyes, but nonetheless slides off his seat and lets her walk him to his room. She stands in the doorway and makes sure he climbs into bed before she wishes him a quiet goodnight, and enters her own quarters.

He’ll never tell her, even when she asks the next morning, but that night he did end up dreaming about Prince Luke Organa.

* * *

“ _The rebel threat continues to grow, with several terrorist groups becoming more and more bold_.” The holoimage of the Imperial reporter switches out for an image of the Ghost crew, with Ezra Bridger at their front. “ _They are attempting our grand Empire and make conditions more difficult for its innocent citizens_ _―”_

“You’re wrong,” Luke whispers, as the reporter continues to issue warnings against the rebels, claiming they are a ‘dangerous threat’ and warning other cells what will happen to them if they continue to fight the Empire. “You’re wrong about them. About _him_.”

But there’s no one to hear him but himself.

Luke sighs, rubbing his temples. He doesn’t have a headache, but he thinks that listening to this slander would be enough to do it. He wants to yell, to point to Ezra and tell the entire galaxy that this boy, his friend, someone the same age as him, is not a criminal. He’s bright and funny and full of hope, determined to do what is right, loyal to his people and people he’s still yet to meet. He has a big heart that lets everyone in―he’s their comrade, their ally, their _friend_ , not their enemy.

A gentle, warm hand comes to rest on Luke’s shoulder.

“This is doing you no good, Luke,” the deep voice says from behind him.

Luke blinks and twists around in his seat. “Father.”

Bail smiles, squeezing his shoulder. Together, both father and son turn back to the holonet and listen to it rattle off statistics, criminating their rebels friends and praising their enemies. Luke’s stomach churns. The words are a bad meal he’s being forced to swallow and making him sick, yet he has to keep his mouth shut to avoid offending its creator.

“Will the galaxy ever know any differently, Father?” he whispers, voice cracking. Even though he knows there’s only the two of them in the room and his father checks for cameras daily, Luke glances around the room and lowers his voice even further. “Will I ever get to stand by Ezra’s side in battle? Will we ever get to make our loyalties truly known?”

Bail raises an eyebrow at Ezra’s name, but otherwise makes no comment. He clasps his hand behind his back and frowns, deep in thought.

“Conflict with the Empire escalates daily, Luke,” he says. However, we are still unprepared. Until the time is right, for our own safety we must continue to play our role and fight the Empire from within, from the shadows.” Luke’s face falls, but Bail looks to him and smiles. “However, I _do_ believe there will soon come a time where we are ready to make our true allegiances known. And perhaps then you’ll be able to fight with Ezra and the Ghost again.”

Luke’s heart skips a beat.

He looks back to the holonet, which has switched from the image to the Ghost to the Imperial reporter once more. Since the Empire has made their point, the Ghost crew is no longer of use to the them.

As an example. As propaganda. Not as _people_.

Luke wishes he could make the galaxy see them as he does. If there was a way, he thinks he would sacrifice his cover as an Imperial just to do it.

“I hope you’re right,” he whispers. “Even just to see them again.”

 _Them_ specifically meaning Ezra.

He wonders what it would be to _truly_ fight beside Ezra―surely it would feel like something close to fighting beside a star about to go supanova, because Ezra always has so much will and energy ready to burst free in a bright, blinding light. And even if he can’t fight beside him, he wishes he could at least stand by Ezra’s side, together, on the same side.

And he can’t explain it but suddenly he’s hurtling through hyperspace and he can _see_ it: the world around him fades away and there’s Ezra, and there’s a sunrise in the background and they’re on a planet he doesn’t know, but Ezra’s running toward him―he looks older, a little rugged, and Luke can feel himself opening his arms and he can feel Ezra’s body collapse into his, heavy and real and warm, and there are tears on both their faces―

And then he’s dumped back into reality like he’s been thrown out of an airlock.

The world swims back into focus around him and he sits there, gasping, eyes wide. He grips the material of the seat as though trying to ground himself and thinks he can feel his heartbeat hammer through his fingertips. His body is shaking and there’s a distant voice in his ear―it’s his father’s―but Luke forgets everything. He forgets his father, his surroundings, his home, and thinks only of Ezra, of the very real and warm feeling of Ezra in his arms.

“One day,” he whispers to himself.

One day, it’s going to happen.

He’s never been surer of anything in his life.


End file.
